


Rainwalk

by sodakey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers who care, Damaged Dean, Early series characterizations, Episode Related, Episode: s01e12 Faith, Gen, May fit early series canon only, Old work, Sappy, Too Expository, better if you've seen the episode, gen - Freeform, spoilers obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 04:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2178342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodakey/pseuds/sodakey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow up to Faith because if we're going to beat a topic to death, why not make it that one? Dean can't sleep and Sam's frustrated. Picks up right after the episode fades to black.  Spoilers abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I believe this is the first story I ever wrote for the Supernatural fandom. It isn't my favorite. It turned out maudlin and too overt, too expository, but I remember enjoying trying to play with the under-the-surface emotions both brothers might have been feeling. It is also, in a minor way, a subtle set up for the monster that is In Reverse.

 

* * *

**Rainwalk**

* * *

A few minutes after Layla left, Sam came back into the room with sodas for both of them.

Dean wished Sam had taken just a bit longer. He wanted more time with his thoughts. More time to just… figure everything out. More time to figure out why he still lived and whether or not his cheating death should perhaps mean something more.

Had Roy really seen into his heart?

He doubted it. He was fairly certain what was in his heart wasn't all that worth saving. 

All his life he'd been the good son. Nothing more. And he'd been the good brother. Nothing less.  Everything else had been about nothing but hunting. Hunting things in the darkness to keep his father sane, to keep his brother safe—to keep other mothers from leaving their own sons and husbands.

Sam. Layla. Roy. Dad. _They_ were good. _They_ had purpose. God worked in mysterious ways for _them_. Not him. It was his job to keep them safe. That's all.

He wasn't trying to be self deprecating. It was just something he'd always known. He wasn't bitter about it. Lonely sometimes. But never bitter.

Now though, people were dead and dying because of him. And he couldn't help wondering— _how do I live with that?_

* * *

 Sam didn't say much to him the rest of the evening. He set himself up on the computer, researching possible jobs while shooting Dean furtive and oddly determined glances.

Dean ignored most of them. Just went through the motions of flipping through television channels, cooking spaghetti on their rented room's tiny stove (that he didn't end up eating) and sorting clothes into different duffels based on apparent cleanliness.

By nightfall he was tired of thinking, tired of everything, but he got into bed knowing he wouldn't be finding sleep.

"Dean," Sam said, standing next to the light switch, ready to turn it out, face set in one of his determined looks. "We did the right thing." It was a statement, not a question, and Dean knew it was meant to convince him… meant to lull him back into being the brother who laughed in the face of death and didn't think too much about the order of the universe and the not-so-moral parts of their life. Lull him back to being the older brother, in control, with answers.

Because if Dean had ever wondered what it might be like for Sam to be the older one, he'd been getting his answer ever since his heart seized on him—ever since Sam had bullied him into the car and driven him to Roy Le Grange's Church of Trading Deaths.  And Dean hadn't known how to deal with that either—the worried Sam, hovering and helping every time he turned around, to sit, to stand, and once, in the roadside diner they'd stopped at in rout, to steady the fork as he brought it to his mouth.

Now Sam hovered by the light switch. Waiting.

It wasn't hard to guess what Sam was waiting for.  Dean twitched his lips and gave him a nod.  One meant to lull Sam into complacency… lull him back into being the younger, too-smart brat he'd always been. And it must have worked because Sam turned out the light, the floor creaking under his feet as he made his way toward his bed in the dark. Dean listed to it sink under Sam's weight, blankets and bedclothes making muted sounds as Sam settled.

When the sounds stopped, Dean leaned against his own headboard, knocking it against the wall behind him. The thump echoed in the room and Sam rolled toward him but didn't say anything.

After a minute Dean shifted back down the bed—made a play at sleeping, but couldn't.  He listened to Sam's steady breathing, closed his eyes, forced himself to picture white fields and blank paper, tried to empty his mind of Layla and brain tumors and Marshall Hall.

Half an hour later, when the tapping of rain started drumming against the roof, he gave up trying.

In dark silence he pulled on jeans and boots. He couldn't find his jacket without turning on a light so he didn't mess with it. He zipped the hooded sweatshirt from the end of his bed over his t-shirt and clicked the door open softly, careful not to wake his brother. And when he shut it, he made sure the lock engaged behind him.

The rain pulsed loud and heavy in his ears as he made his way out of the motel.

His mother had loved the rain.

More often than not, he found he loved it too—the really good storms with lightning and thunder. Whether that was because of her or because of some other psychological issue, he didn't know and didn't guess at.

The town wasn't big, and it wasn't big on sidewalks. Dean sloshed through the mud steadily, echoing the rhythm of the Aerosmith song in his head—if only because he made it so. He started to hum, mumbling the words. _Sing with me, if it's just for today. Maybe tomorrow, the good lord will take you away..._

He walked without purpose or direction, letting the mantra of music and the pounding of rain numb his mind.

Two hours into his walk and he was at the cemetery. A large cemetery. Old. There might have been another in town but Dean doubted it.

He read the name on the gate and knew from the obituary this is where they'd buried Marshall Hall that morning—while Dean had been saying goodbye to Layla and telling her he'd pray for her.

Suddenly he wanted to see the grave—Marshall Hall's. See what remained of the man who'd died for him.

Maybe this is where he'd been intending to come all along.

When he found it, the rounded lump of earth looked fresh and dark—a muddy soupy mound bound to melt into the surrounding grass as the torrents continued. The headstone hadn't been set yet, but a staked-in marker gave Marshall's name and date of death.

_4:17_ Dean thought. The marker didn't say the time, but Dean would always remember it.

No longer walking, he could feel how heavy with water his jeans had become—his sweatshirt was soaked cold and his t-shirt was sticking to his skin underneath.

His muscles ached.

He shivered involuntarily.

He hadn't noticed the cold while he'd been walking but it settled into him now, deep in his joints, sharp on his skin. Even so, he turned his head up to the rain, letting it pelt his face, closing his eyes to better listen to it strike the ground and headstones below.

A twinge was building in his chest that had nothing to do with the storm. Though it echoed the painful tightness he'd been battling before Roy healed him—before Sue Ann turned his fate over to Marshall Hall—it was different.  This pain was only there because he lived. Because he was alive when he shouldn't be.  _How did he live with that?  How could he ever let it go away?_

Opening his eyes, he dropped his head down to look again at the grave, feeling like he should say something and feeling ridiculous for feeling like he should say something.

He wanted to shout, to sit, to pound his fists into the ground, to make someone come and explain all this… tell him what this was supposed to mean for him… tell him what he could do to make any of this right. But some things never made sense. Sometimes, life just sucked.

"Did you know my brother?"

The voice was soft and so startled Dean he had to stop himself from reaching for the gun he didn't have. His eyes darted till he found the source—a boy sitting hidden on a cedar bench near an alcove of trees to his left.

As he stared, the kid stood and approached him. He was skinny—skinnier than Sam but not nearly as tall. Younger than Sam too, but not by much. He had black hair—short, curly, plastered to his head with rainwater.

"Not exactly," Dean said, surprised when his voice caught and he had to repeat the phrase.

The kid nodded, shivering, stepping closer to the muddy grave, soaked to the skin himself and wearing a denim jacket that kept the rain out about as well as Dean's sweatshirt.

Dean's heart thrummed, the tightness intensifying.

The kid was giving him a questioning look, waiting for Dean to explain his 1am presence at his brother's grave.

Dean swallowed. "I just wanted to… Marshall… he uh… he saved my life," he offered, words sinking. He didn't know how else to explain.

The kid's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah, he did. I guess I just… felt like I owed it to him to…" Dean made a gesture at the muddy grave—awkward, inadequate. "He was your brother?"

The kid nodded, staring. "That's funny," he said.

Dean lifted an eyebrow.

The kid's voice wavered. "About him saving your life," he clarified. "Not… ha-ha funny. Just, last Thanksgiving we got onto this stupid conversation—stuff we wanted to do before we died. He said if he ever died young he wanted to do something worthwhile first. Saving someone's life is pretty worthwhile. Right?"

"Yeah," Dean almost couldn't get the word out.

"How—?"

"It's a long story," Dean said.

The kid nodded and shivered. "I'm Morgan," he offered. Dean pretended not to notice his shaking voice.

"Dean," he said, then hesitated. "Can you tell me about him?"

Morgan visibly swallowed, looking away, and Dean wished he'd never asked the question. Like this kid was supposed to sum up his brother in thirty words or less. He could never do that with Sam. He doubted Sam could have done it with him.

"He was athletic," Morgan started, then swallowed again and seemed to rethink his words. "That's what it says in the obituary anyway… he was athletic and liked history and travel."

Dean waited.

"And that's all true enough it just… doesn't seem enough. He was athletic, but he did it more because my dad wanted him to be. Dad's kind of a nut about staying healthy. He's 69 and he still goes running all the time. Marshall didn't like running but he figured out he liked swimming so… Dad feels kinda guilty about it now… thinks Marshall had a heart condition we just never knew about. And he—Marshall—liked history and he traveled a lot… which always drives— _drove_ —my mom crazy 'cause he'd always end up traveling alone. He backpacked across Europe that way. And he hitch-hiked from Peru all the way down to the tip of Chile all by himself. Mom was so mad…"

Dean smiled, a quick half-smile that didn't last. "He sounds like he was a real good person."

Morgan nodded, dragging his sleeve under his nose. He might have said more but the distant screech of tires and a car door opening in the parking lot prevented it.

They both turned to watch as a man with a flashlight bobbed toward them.

Dean tensed as the flashlight swept across him and settled on Morgan. The figure stopped, flipping a cell phone out of his coat pocket, followed by the beep of dialing. "He's here. I've got him, Dad," the man spoke. "We'll be back soon."  Then the flashlight clicked off. The phone flipped closed.  "Jeez, Morgan! What are you doing out here? It's been a rough enough day as it is without waking up to find you gone! Mom's worried out of her mind."

Dean's eyes adjusted to see a near replica of Morgan, only older, taller.

Morgan shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry, Mike, I just wanted to…"

Mike seemed to understand. Ignoring Dean, he stepped closer to Morgan and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Let someone know next time, would ya?"

The kid nodded.

"We were worried, Morgan," he finished gruffly. "Hard enough losing… " The world was silent a moment and then Mike, as though he'd just caught on to Dean's presence, pinned him with a stare.

"This is Dean," Morgan explained.

The man tipped his head. "Mike," he said. He held out a hand, and if he thought it was awkward to be introduced to a stranger at his brother's graveside in the middle of the night in the waning rain, he didn't show it. "Did you know Marshall?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Dean answered. "I just came to pay my respects."

"I'm sure Marshall would have appreciated that."

"Dean told me Marshall saved his life once," Morgan interjected.

Mike looked at Dean again, curiosity evident.

Dean just nodded.

"You have family, Dean?"

"Little brother," he said simply… _and a father somewhere… somewhere else a dead mother…_

Mike clicked on his flashlight, looked at his little brother and at the downing rain—clearly wanting to get Morgan out of it. "Can we drop you somewhere?" he asked, ushering Morgan ahead as he turned back to the parking lot and his still-running car, but Dean caught the fleeting glance of regret he cast towards Marshall's muddy grave.

Dean turned also, falling into step with them. "No, thanks," he answered.

"Are you sure?" Mike asked, when they were out the gate, apparently noticing Dean's lack of car.

"Yeah. Where I'm staying isn't far," he lied.

Mike shrugged, closing the passenger door after his brother had climbed into the car.

Dean shuffled back, blinked one last time in the direction of Marshall's grave and started walking away. Behind him, Morgan's voice suddenly called out. "Dean, I'm glad he saved your life!"

Dean turned, stepping back towards the car, wiping rain from his face. "Thanks, Morgan." He warred with himself for a moment then went for it—reaching out to stop Mike from closing the driver's side door. "Listen," he said awkwardly. "My brother and I… we work… we uh… we _help_ people." Dean dipped his head forward, cleared his throat. "If you ever need anything, give us a call, okay?"

Mike looked at him quizzically, but wrote down Dean's number with a nod, shook his hand again, thanked him for paying his respects to Marshall, and with a last lingering look, drove out of the parking lot.

Dean stood motionless for a long moment after. Watching them go. Back to a home with a mother and a father and half a dozen more siblings for all he knew. But back to a place where Marshall would never be again.

It wasn't right but Dean suddenly pictured Sam in the same scenario. At night, in the rain, standing by his graveside. Sam wouldn't have had anyone to come looking for him—no one to wake up worried at finding him gone. And for one fleeting moment, Dean was _grateful_ —horrifically, selfishly grateful that Marshall had taken his place.

The feeling was followed by a blunt stab of guilt.  _Was that really supposed to make it more okay? Was it more okay for Marshall to be dead because he had more family?_

"I'm sorry, Marshall," he murmured. "I never meant for this to happen.  I think... I think you probably deserved better... better than...."  _Better than me._

Turning from the graveyard, slowly, he started the long walk back to Sam and their rented room, achingly tired but in no hurry to get there.

He hoped by the time he got back he'd feel ready to go in… maybe even sleep.

* * *

It was rare, these days, for Sam to sleep through the night.

Waking up half a dozen times was normal. Par for the course. The difference, however, between those times and this one was that he could usually remember why he'd awakened—a dream, a sound, a nightmare.  The need to use the bathroom.  But, now…

He listened to the silence, slowing his breathing, trying to reason it through.

Abruptly, he gasped.

Bolting upright, he reached for the lamp. As expected, Dean's bed was empty.

"Damn."  Sam grimaced. A weak ago, an empty bed might not have meant much, might not have been a reason to worry or panic. But that was before he'd been told his brother had _two weeks, at most maybe a month_ to live. Before he'd had to sleep in a motel room alone while his brother lay in a hospital bed giving Sam the option of _burial or cremation_.

Not that he'd slept much, those days. Whenever he'd tried his mind had kept whispering to him— _what if your brother dies and you're here sleeping?_ The question had kept him stuck in an anxiety-fueled wakefulness, contemplating a future without his brother to rag on him, chide him, protect him, wake up in the night with him to worry about his nightmares. In those long hours Sam had grown afraid in a way he'd never been before.

If there was anything left to fear, he'd thought, anything that could still happen to him—this was it. Losing Dean.

What was worse was Dean hadn't seemed to care—not like he should have. It was like he'd given up before they'd ever made it to the hospital.

When Roy had called Dean out of the audience, Sam had been elated and relieved. When Dean had told the faith healer to _pick someone else_ Sam had wanted to smack him. Dean hadn't wanted to die—Sam knew that, somehow. But Dean had been resigned to it—placid, annoyingly accepting, annoyingly willing to just _go_.

And now, to wake up and have him gone…

Angrily, Sam checked the bathroom and found nothing. He rifled through Dean's duffel and found his brother's jacket and the keys to the Impala.

He checked the time. 2:30am.

He looked for a note.  Nothing.

He yanked on his jeans and shoes and walked down the hall to the soda machine, just in case.  Nothing.

Back in the room, he found his own jacket and pulled it on.

He picked through Dean's things with greater intent and discovered Dean's sweatshirt was missing, as were his boots. Which all probably meant Dean had left on his own and wasn't mysteriously taken, but how was Sam supposed to know?

Before heading out the door he walked over to Dean's bed, setting a hand where Dean would have slept. The sheets were cold.  He sighed, cursing his own exhaustion, angry he hadn't noticed Dean gone sooner, angry that Dean—if nothing was wrong—hadn't even left a stupid note.

It's not like he couldn't picture what Dean was thinking. His brother was alive when other people were dead and dying and he didn't necessarily believe he deserved to be.

Sam got it.

But it didn't stop him from being glad Dean was alive. He'd had the bliss of ignorance when his brother was healed. He wasn't going to dwell too much on the other possibilities. And he wasn't going to let his brother do anything stupid to throw away their good fortune.

Walking out the door with the Impala's keys, Sam cursed. _Why couldn't Dean just… Let. It. Be?_

* * *

tbc

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

* * *

By the time Sam got out of the motel, the rain was slowing but thunder cracked ominously overhead.  _Foreboding_ , Sam thought, grimacing because Jess would have laughed at him for thinking it—would have teased him and called him superstitious. Funny how she and Dean were alike that way—insistent on believing only what they could see in their own diversified versions of reality.

None of those thoughts, however, stopped Sam from disliking the trepidation the thunder was giving him.

He tightened his jaw, trying to hold onto frustration over worry. Already, a dozen bloody scenarios of where his brother might be were flashing through his mind.

Getting across the parking lot to the Impala was an adventure in itself. Had he not been so frustrated he might have navigated better. As it was, he got his shoe stuck in the mud twice and had to catch himself before sinking his socked foot into the mud next to it. And when he finally made it to the car, he didn't bother scraping his feet before getting in, letting the mud drip off below as he drove.

Dean would just have to live with it.  _Sardonic_ , Sam grinned. It was inappropriate Dean-like humor, he realized as he changed the emphasis of the words in his head. Dean would have to _live_ with it. Dead, Dean could say nothing of how Sam treated his car.

He drove to Roy Le Grange's first. He wasn't sure Dean would go back there, but he had no clue where else to start looking.

The tent was still standing but the _Services_ sign had been taken down. The attendees whose trailers had taken up residence in the lot were already vastly thinned. A few cars were parked close to the Reverend's house. Through the front window Sam could see blinking lights—like people were still in there—still awake. Apparently not all the flock had abandoned their minister, and though Sam felt no regret at Sue Ann's death he was glad Roy wasn't passing his time of loss alone.

Like Sam would have… had it been Dean.

Sam frowned.

Reasonably sure his brother wasn't among the comforting followers, he drove away from the house and the pseudo church, intent on not looking back. Intent on finding some other way of gaining inspiration regarding his older brother's whereabouts.

Though Sam could guess fairly well at the thoughts running around in Dean's head, he couldn't begin to guess where else his brother might have gone. It bothered him, and he decided if he absolutely had to be psychic—and consequently had to live with the guilt of having not prevented his girlfriend's death—the trade off should be the ability to _always_ know where his brother was. _That_ would at least be useful and helpful in a comforting—not terrifying, wake up in the middle of the night with visions of death and mayhem—way.

_Wasn't he owed that somehow?_

As Sam drove aimlessly, peering out the windshield between strokes of the wiper blades, looking for any shadow or shape that might be Dean, he realized he actually felt that way—like Dean's perpetual life was owed to him.

Sam didn't want to play God. He hadn't wanted innocent people to die. He was sorry Marshall had. Sorrier still because he knew Dean was hurt by it. But in the cosmic scheme of things, the universe had had no _right_ to fate his brother away from him. So however— _whatever_ —had happened, none of it meant Dean didn't deserve to _live_.

 _Dean_ had no right to think he shouldn't live.

In the course of the internal monolog, Sam had begun clenching his jaw so tightly, it hurt. And he was so lost in his battered train of thoughts he almost missed the obscure, lone figure moving slowly and steadily down the street ahead of him. An accompanying flash of lightning brightened the sky, just long enough for Sam to recognize Dean's light hair and keep him from driving right past him.

Thunder followed the flash, bringing with it a hail of rain.

Sam slammed on the brakes, hydroplaning momentarily before skidding safely to a stop.

* * *

Dean was just over half way back to the motel when the roar of the Impala whirred beside him, screeching on the spun gravel-top road, water spraying out from puddles under all four tires.

He blinked in surprise, not having noticed the car before its dramatic arrival.

That was when he realized he'd grown increasingly numb as he'd settled into the steady rhythm of walking. In the process, he'd also tuned out most of his surroundings, humming, focusing on the rhythm and meter in his head in the effort to ignore the headache building behind his eyes.

From the driver's seat, Sam reached across and popped open the passenger door, all hard angles as the light from one of the few scattered streetlamps back-lit him.  Sam's eyes were smoky as they pinned him. "Get in," his voice clipped.

If Dean had ever had trouble knowing whether or not his brother was angry, it wouldn't have been then. But even though he recognized it, something in Dean couldn't give in to Sam or his anger. He wasn't sure why—thought maybe it was because it would just be too easy, too easy to let Sam be the answer to all this. So easy it would feel like cheating.

It was an enticing way to resolve the emotions stuck in his chest, because just the thought of Sam being alone—of Sam being left behind—made all the horror justified.

And those thoughts weren't fair either. Not to him. And not to Sam.

Sam was his little brother, but he was no longer a kid.  And Sam _wasn't_ him.

Dean could admit that being left was one of his biggest fears. Not Sam's. And it sucked, but he'd lived through it. Dean couldn't guarantee something like this would never happen again. Realistically, how many times could you cheat death? His number had been up a long time ago. Like he'd said to Sam— _it's a dangerous gig._

Imagining Sam incapable of dealing with his death was unacceptable.

Sam wasn't meant to be like him.

The added sting in all this was—even without factoring in his brother—Dean was content to be alive.  He'd realized since the very moment he'd woken in the hospital that there were a million and one little things, and a few not so little things, that he wanted to live for.

And he couldn't just send those feelings away because of Sammy— _Sam_ , who was currently glaring at him with a fire reflective of John.

Dean looked down at his soaked self tiredly, then moved carefully to the open door. Placing one hand on the roof of the car for balance, he bent down to meet Sam's smoldering eyes. "I'll walk," he told him. "I don't want to get the seats wet."

Sam very nearly growled. Swearing under his breath, he reached into the back, produced two towels and proceeded to drape them haphazardly over the passenger seat. "Get. In," he clipped again.

Dean dragged the moment out, stood upright, looked up and down the empty street, then— _finally_ —sighed and complied.

He realized, once he was in, that it actually felt good to sit down.

He was dripping and cold, and knew his clothes were so wet the towels would do little to protect his car but...

He closed his door anyway then looked left to see Sam's expression had changed. Sam was now looking at him warily, worriedly—like he'd looked at him almost the entire drive to Nebraska.

Dean didn't like it.

The expression drew out Sam's eyes, and though the look was determined, it made him seem young—younger than Dean wanted him to seem. He almost smacked him to get him to stop but the ache spreading through his limbs made the twitch of his hands too slow to respond. Too slow also to stop the hesitant hand Sam reached toward him—the warm dry hand he used to lightly grip the side of Dean's face and neck. "You're _freezing_ ," Sam grit out—voiced like an accusation—cranking up the heater with the same hand before Dean's motion to jerk his head away did any good.

They idled in the street. Dean watched with detached curiosity as Sam finally forced his angry gaze out the windshield and stepped lightly on the gas pedal—the grip of his hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel.

"Problem, smiley?" Sometimes Dean just couldn't help himself.

With a visible jump in his jaw muscle, Sam took one hand off the wheel, dug into his jacket pocket, and tossed Dean's cell phone a little too forcefully into his lap.

Dean's reflexes were stuck on slow and he didn't get his hands out in time to catch it—or to stop it from sliding away from him onto the floor. It was too dark to see where it landed, and he was too tired to go fishing for it. "You have issues with my cell phone now?"

"Always keeping them with us is your stupid rule," Sam grunted, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

Not that Dean wasn't grateful to have him no longer glaring or staring at him, but— "And we all know how big you are on following orders," he replied evenly.

"Well maybe this is one I happen to agree with, Dean. I mean what the hell was I supposed to think happened to you?"

"You weren't supposed to think anything happened to me, Sam. I just went for a walk—"

"In the middle of the night? In the pouring rain? For who knows how long? To who knows where? When you're still—"

"Still what, Sam?" Dean felt his own jaw muscle jump. "I'm not sick anymore. Marshall Hall died to save me, remember?"

"When you're still _tired_."

Dean rolled his eyes, but Sam wasn't finished.

"You don't think I've noticed how drained you've been since we stopped the reaper?" He bit down on his lip. "I mean—you saw it again. Didn't you? It did something to you last night. When I met you at the car it was like you were barely standing." Sam glanced over.

Dean tried to school his features, but his brother had already seen the question in his eyes.

"When I found the black alter… Sue Ann had your picture on it," he explained.

"It didn't do anything to me Sam," Dean explained in return, patient. "You stopped it. I'm not sick. I'm not hurt. I'm alive and kicking, okay?"

"No," Sam countered. "You're alive and freezing to death! If I'd taken off in the middle of the night like you did, you'd—"

"Is that what this is about? Fine, Sam, I give you carte blanche on a midnight stroll of your choice." Dean knew it wasn't what Sam meant, but deliberately misunderstanding was easier. Easier, because they were so tangled up in issues they'd both be in knots by the time they tried to sort everything out.  Dean was already on his last legs—he couldn't hold himself up and his brother too.

Better to let Sam see things go back to normal… normal deflection and joking.

Dean could deal with the confusion later—on his own.

Sam wasn't ready to agree. He slammed on the brakes, skidding the tires—worsening Dean's headache—and flipped the car into park. "Damn it," he whispered, voice choked and controlled, like it had been in the hospital when he'd growled at Dean for his haunted-car joke. "Why can't you just…" Sam shoved open his door, swinging himself into the night, slamming it behind him so hard the car rocked.

Stunned, Dean did nothing for several long moments—watched as Sam paced back and forth on the road in an apparent attempt to calm himself down, swiping hands across his face twice in view of the running Impala's headlights.

* * *

Sam didn't know how he'd let the conversation—if you could call it that—get so far away from him.

He didn't know how he'd let his emotions get so far away from him.

He didn't know how he'd let _Dean_ get so far away from him.

And not even the continued cracks of thunder were loud enough to cover the shout building in his chest, so he kept it in, and kept pacing.

When he'd left for Stanford—when Jess would ask and he'd try to explain—it hadn't been because he didn't love his family. And it had never been against _Dean_ , but his anger, his frustration, and his desire to be normal had isolated him from them more and more… angered him more and more each time he'd had some sort of fleeting contact with them. And _them_ had usually just been Dean—who he'd only seen as an emissary of their father's at the time. So he'd stopped answering the phone calls.  Stopped participating in the Winchester's isolated and ardent views of the world.  And by so doing became more like them than he could ever admit.

He was realizing now that he'd lost some connection to Dean in the process, because a Dean connected to him like they'd been as kids—Dean his _brother_ —could never be so blasé about this.

He stopped moving, sucked in air, filled his lungs to capacity, slowly counting as he let it out. He was on breath number three when he heard one of the Impala's doors open behind him, heard his brother's boots shuffle in the gravel.

Sam wished Dean would just stay in the car where the heater was running. Where Sam wouldn't look up to see him pinched and pale in the drizzle. Where he was less likely to conjure images of him suddenly dying from pneumonia.

But Dean came anyway.

Sam waited until breath number five before he finally looked up to see Dean sitting against the front of the car—as pale as he'd pictured—both arms folded tightly across his chest.

The look on Dean's face was something new— _uncertain_ —like Dean felt their conversation had gotten as far away from them as Sam did.

They were in new territory, Sam realized—realized Dean thought it was hostile territory, if the look on his face was any indication.

He swallowed tightly, breathing deeply again, trying to ignore the raw emotions tingling across his skin and seeping into his muscles.  Controlling his movements he stepped slowly toward Dean, slowing further when Dean inexplicably tensed. Sam chewed his cheek—feeling angry—feeling his jaw muscle spasm from the pressure he was giving it. But he realized he needed to give Dean some leeway. Needed to accept that Dean hadn't gone for a midnight stroll just to annoy him. Needed to realize there were things on Dean's mind—things Dean was feeling whether Sam wanted him to or not.

But Sam was also remembering—during the Bloody Mary fiasco—he'd been feeling just so… _everything_ , and Dean had seen it and been there. He'd pulled to the side of the road with an unwaveringly proclaimed " _that's it_ "—prepared to make Sam talk about it. Prepared to make it better, whatever it took. Had even offered to let Sam blame _him_ … to take a swing at _him_ for Jessica's death.

Well _that's it_ was how Sam was feeling now and it wasn't fair that Dean got to do all the brotherly things and wouldn't let Sam do them in return. As if everyone was supposed to see Dean as impenetrable, un-damnable, stoic and steady. Unfair, because Sam really could see through the crap.

 _Whatever, dude. Have you even slept? You look worse than me._ That's all Sam had gotten _then_ , when he'd told Dean as much—a display of Dean's ability to shift concern, deflect it, even reflect it. That's all Sam would get now if he wasn't careful. Because he could see even through his anger that Dean was trembling with emotions neither of them were comfortable with.

The look on his face was guarded, shadowed, yet incongruously raw and open. The dichotomy made Sam stop to study his brother more carefully, wondering if he was seeing him correctly.

Finally, he took a shaky breath, fighting the shout in his chest as he said, "Dean. _Please_."

Dean met his eyes. "Please, _what?_ " And he sounded so achingly, annoyingly innocent it almost sent Sam into a tantrum like he hadn't had since he was two. Almost. Sam stopped, realizing maybe Dean wasn't just trying to avoid him. Maybe the question was just as it sounded—innocent.

"This," Sam said, stepping closer, waving a hand between them in the air, relieved when Dean didn't tense. "We have to talk about this or it will destroy you. It will get you killed." The truth of it hit him once he said it—hit him so hard he wished he hadn't said it even though he knew pretending couldn't make this go away.

"I don't know what you want me to say here, Sammy."

Sam sighed in relief. The statement didn't make Dean an open book, but it was void of deflection, which meant Dean wasn't dodging him—yet. And maybe, just maybe, he was offering the tiny branch that said he might let Sam help him through this. "How 'bout you start with where you went tonight?"

"I went to see Marshall Hall. His grave."

Sam nodded tightly.

"He ah… his little brother was there."

 _Oh God_ —a prayer. Sam felt his eyes burn. He'd had a _brother_. Marshall Hall had a _brother_.

"I just wanted to see who he was. I wanted to see who I killed."

" _No!_ " Sam had to stop him there. "It wasn't your fault, Dean. You didn't kill anyone. You didn't know. And more people would have died if we hadn't come here."

"People are still dying, Sam. We just changed which ones they were."

"I know it doesn't seem like it—but we did the right thing."

"Yeah, we did the right thing… and I still get to live." Dean stood up, turning away from Sam to look into the dark beyond the dim light lining the road.

Unconsciously Sam realized he'd been waiting for Dean to say that—say it out loud. And he wasn't about to lose Dean now. He jumped at it, taking two sliding steps to his left, pivoting in front of his brother and ducking his head to catch Dean's eyes. "And you think the only right outcome is you being dead, right?" Sam tried not to sound accusing and realized he probably hadn't done a very good job.

"I didn't say that." Dean's eyes darted left, over Sam's shoulder, again into the dark.

Sam shifted, catching Dean's eyes again, shuffling closer to Dean than Dean probably wanted. "It _sounds_ like what you're saying."

"I'm not… look, Sam, it's gonna take me a few days to sort this out… just give me a break okay?"

"No. If you want to blame someone, blame me," Sam said carefully. "I wanted you alive. I need you to _be_ alive. I brought you here. If you need to blame someone, blame me. If you need to take a swing at me, go ahead."

Dean shifted, re-crossed his arms, dropped his gaze from Sam to the point where the light from Impala met the road—illuminating the occasional drop of rain, turning it to silver. But Sam had seen it before Dean looked away—the faint recognition of the conversation they were echoing. Sam hoped the familiarity would work in his favor. After all, he was taking his cues from Dean.

Dean closed his eyes.

Sam waited.

"I don't blame you," Dean breathed a moment later. "And I don't—" he made a weak gesture with his hand, opening his eyes, "I don't want to be dead."

And even though it was what Sam had been hoping to hear he cursed Dean's voice for being so steady when he felt like every word he was trying to push out his own mouth would shatter before it got there. He'd been so afraid—so afraid Dean had wanted to die, feeling some misguided duty to the fates. Sam looked down at his shoes, and suddenly, to his horror he was crying—the scream in his chest running embarrassingly out his eyes—causing his breath to hitch. He bit down hard on his lip to hold in the sob.

And suddenly Dean's icy hand was on the back of his neck. "Hey," he heard as Dean pulled him forward, sounding staggered and surprised. And even though Sam was taller he let his head drop to Dean's shoulder, rawly thankful when Dean's arm came strongly around him, gripping tightly, the hand on his neck moving up to rub up and down the back of his head carefully, and Sam had to wonder if he'd somehow gone crazy in the last five minutes because he couldn't remember having needed human contact this badly.

He _tried_ to stop the tears but couldn't—clenched his eyes closed and clenched his fists tighter into the back of Dean's sweatshirt, no longer trying to hold himself together—feeling broken with relief—feeling _four_.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay."

Sam cried harder.

"I'm sorry… okay? I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I… I'm here, okay? I'm not dead." It occurred to him through his jumbled thoughts that maybe now he was scaring _Dean_. Knew he was by the frenetic edge in Dean's voice, even though his arm stayed confidently circling his baby of a brother, even as his hand continued to reassuringly rub at his neck, fingers still icy cold from hours in the rain. Evidence that he should be taken back to the motel and shoved into a hot shower so he _didn't_ die of pneumonia.

Abruptly, Sam let go, backing up, only to reach out again in a mad grab for Dean's elbow when he swayed unexpectedly.

"Sorry," said Sam, after it was apparent Dean could stand on his own—feeling stupid, feeling immensely relieved when Dean made no cracks about chick-flick moments nor attempted to remove his arm from Sam's grip.

Dean nodded, eyes looking widely at Sam—clearly a bit dazed by his little brother. But Dean's eyes were red too and not just from the cold. "I'm sorry too," Dean told him. And Sam no longer felt _completely_ crazy. He nodded back, making a last swipe at his eyes.

The rain was picking up again. "Come on," he said, trying to bounce back from his breakdown, reaching out to turn Dean's gaze away from him, steering him resolutely back to the car, opening the door and closing it securely after Dean was completely inside.

He walked around to the driver's door, aware Dean's eyes were still on him, still processing Sam's sordid fall from stoicism.

When he slid into his seat, he was grateful for the warmth the running car had built up inside while they'd had their discussion. He revved the engine, using it to bring back a semblance of familiar territory, common ground.

"So," Dean said, cutting the silence a few minutes after Sam stepped down on the gas pedal. "You find any jobs for us today?"

"Yeah, actually," Sam answered. "Ghost sightings in a canyon outside Lander, Wyoming—with three missing hikers from that same canyon in the last three months." There was more to the story, but he'd tell Dean about that later—fill him in on the gut feeling that had made Lander stand out to him.

"Huh," Dean grunted, showing interest. "Wyoming's never been my favorite state—but I guess we're going to Lander."

"Yeah," said Sam. "But with our luck… you'll probably get sick from all this cold before we get there."

Dean rocked his head toward Sam, grinning slightly. "Don't sweat it, little brother—a little cold never killed a Winchester."

And though he kept his eyes out the windshield, Sam smiled back.

* * *

**Epilog**

* * *

Dean lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to quiet his running mind enough to sleep.

He was exhausted enough. Exhausted enough that he hadn't complained when Sam steadied him with a grip on his elbow while they'd walked back into their rented room. Even let Sam get the warm water in the shower running before waving him out and away.

Part of him recognized Sam had some need to do it—and Dean still hadn't quite gotten over the intensity of his brother's emotions.

He shifted onto his side—eyes adjusted enough to the dark to make out Sam's face—Sam hadn't woken with a nightmare yet, hadn't stirred, though he'd just fallen asleep and dawn was less than two hours away.

Dean didn't know if their talk had made it all better—was pretty sure it hadn't—and would have avoided it if he could have, not liking to see Sammy that freaked out. But it had made things a _little_ better.

He still didn't have the answers to why he lived when others hadn't. He still felt guilty that Marshall had been forced to take his place, and regret that he'd been saved when Layla hadn't been. But he also knew he couldn't change it, couldn't turn back time, couldn't waste life by looking back too much.

He didn't know if God worked in mysterious ways. Wasn't sure all this had turned out right.

And he couldn't be sure it all wouldn't come back to bite him in the end.

But one thing was certain—he would live to find out.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
